


sun sets west so i know where i'm going

by quadrille



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Canon - TV, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Episode: s07e04 The Spoils of War, Episode: s07e05 Eastwatch, Episode: s07e06 Beyond the Wall, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-13 07:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: Moments from their time together at Dragonstone, and a beginning. (Spoilers through 7x06, “Beyond the Wall”. Includes canon-compliant missing scenes.)





	1. the spoils of war

**Author's Note:**

> My first real dive into the fandom, because this season gave me too many feelings. Each chapter remixes an episode from the back half of S7.

His hand is pressed gently against her shoulderblades, guiding her through these narrow, twisting stone passageways. Normally she might have bristled with a haughty snapping of teeth, all fire and blood at the too-close touch, for how _dare_ he lay a hand on her uninvited —

But Daenerys is absorbed in the sight of ancient carvings and daubs of chalk illuminated by flickering torchlight, and finds that she doesn’t mind.

Instead, she strides on ahead.  


* * *

  
His Northern accent reminds her of Ser Jorah the Andal’s. That was a curious thing she hadn’t expected: first, to finally encounter someone who spoke as her bear did; second, the warmth of nostalgia which it sent through her. The way it made her feel like she was home, and safe, and that the voice was trustworthy.

It’s one of the reasons she likes listening to him: his entire manner frank, forthright, matter-of-fact, no ornamentation. His assistant (his Hand?) is even more brusque. It’s a startling contrast to her own advisors: Tyrion and Missandei and Varys with their pretty words and labyrinthine phrasing and delicate wording. They’re politicians, all, and they’ve taught themselves to talk circles around others.

Such bluntness from their two visitors is refreshing, in a way.  


* * *

  
Her dragons have heated some of the water reservoirs at Dragonstone. A simple exhalation and then they have hot springs: it’s a cheap way to heat the castle and clean themselves without burning the precious wood they need for ships and weapons.

As he strips his shirt to wade into the communal bath, she notices that Jon Snow’s skin is appropriately pale, the colour of someone accustomed to being bundled in heavy furs and the breath of winter. Not like the hot, tanned shades of someone who grew up under the burning sun of Braavos and who walked across the Red Waste.

But what most draws her eye is the latticework of scars covering his chest, both the nicks that might have come from training, and the signs of deeper, uglier injuries. For a moment (with a pang of memory and a flare of warmth), it reminds her of Daario: a functional body, one honed and hardened through combat and necessity, no soft excesses.

Far more noteworthy, however, is the wound over his heart. The twisted and puckered flesh, as if healed from a gruesome burn.

It’s a stab wound.

She reaches out and touches it lightly, as if to prove that it’s real. Jon doesn’t flinch, just looks down, follows the line of her wrist and arm.

“So, your lieutenant…” she says. “He was not exaggerating.”

Daenerys had lodged on that phrasing from the very moment Ser Davos had said it. _Taken a knife to the heart for his people._ It sounded like poetic prettiness, a metaphorical flourish about betrayal — save that Ser Davos Seaworth was not a poetic man, and not one inclined to metaphor when the basic unornamented truth would do.

Thus, only one conclusion: it was the truth.

Jon’s hand captures hers and lifts it away from his chest. “You have the love of your people,” he says, and there’s a touch of dry humour there, a mordant self-awareness. (Perhaps death does wonders for a sense of humour.) “I’m not very good at that part.”

“Your northern houses are tremendously loyal. They rebel against me, all for love of you.” There’s distaste in the queen’s voice.

“Not exactly. My brother Robb… him, they loved,” he says distractedly, thinking, as if picturing the man. “They would follow him into the death if necessary, and many did. But they’re united because right now, they distrust anyone who isn’t a northerner. Begging pardon. The Iron Throne hasn’t treated my people very well.”

“I am better than my brother.” A stubborn tilt of her chin, head rising, in a way that’s starting to become familiar to him.

“I know,” Jon says, with a flash of a smile that’s all the more startling and surprising because she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile before. It staggers her.  


* * *

  
He doesn’t want to admit to her exactly how precarious his situation is. How the northmen alliance seems on the verge of falling apart at any given moment, these lords becoming fractious, so much so he feels like grabbing them and shaking them most days. How the only living heads of the Karstark and Umber houses are children. How a twelve-year-old girl commands the room better than he does. How his own sister undermines him in front of his men.

Jon Snow hates politics. He’s only here, in this role, because he needs these forces for the war to come.

Daenerys, on the other hand, seems to be born for this — and he knows that isn’t any useless Targaryen loyalty speaking, he doesn’t owe that family a thing, and doesn’t give a damn about her heredity besides. But the truth is that power suits her.  


* * *

  
Their queen is seething and angry on that beach, practically lashing a metaphorical tail. Everyone has scattered, watching her with worried eyes. Tyrion tries his best to calm her, but Daenerys simply shuts him down, steams right over him.

Then, she finally whirls on Jon Snow — her doleful guest, King in the North, this brooding leader who wants nothing to do with leadership, who carries power but reluctantly.

“What do you think I should do?” she demands, and that way it sounds more like an imperious command than imploring for advice.

Dany can sense the ripples in the advisors around her, at the sight of her turning to this stranger.

It’s something like a test, perhaps.

And yet it’s also a genuine request. Jon Snow carries a cold, steely conviction that reminds her of herself; that unmoving core which always told her what _the right thing to do_ was. 

But Westeros has her reeling and cautious, not wanting to tear her way into the heart of King’s Landing, but unable to give way either. She’s standing on unfamiliar ground (even the air tastes different, wet and mossy), and is faced with unfamiliar players in the game.

She would like some guidance now, and she looks into Jon’s dark, thoughtful eyes, and waits.  


* * *

  
Tyrion is proud of his girl. He’s been watching her carefully, particularly during that crucial first meeting with Jon Snow — her first engagement with a Westerosi leader, the test of how she’ll handle herself with these people. And oh, but she handled herself _spectacularly_. All impenetrable pride, not giving way, every inch the arrogant Targaryen except… well, sane.

Snow and Seaworth exhibit the typical bullish stubbornness that he associates with the North, but they’ve never had to deal with Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, the Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains (et cetera, et cetera, he tends to tune out when they hit a stride).

After that first meeting, Tyrion doesn’t doubt for one moment that she can handle them.  


* * *

  
She’s returned from scorching the Lannister army.

The queen is dressed in sensible leathers, her white hair smells of smoke, and there are smudges of dirt on her cheek and under her nails. She’s clearly been through battle, and Jon realises that she’s never looked more beautiful; even more so than the pristine porcelain creature who first greeted him from Dragonstone’s throne. 

_Fire-kissed_ , Jon thinks, and for once the memory of Ygritte doesn’t make him jolt with pain and guilt. The memory feels faded and distant, as if it happened a thousand years ago.

It was, admittedly, another lifetime.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

But her gaze is distracted. “Drogon,” Daenerys says, “someone go see to Drogon. He’s injured in his right shoulder.”

All her muscles are wound up tight, her jaw clenching on the words, her own shoulder stiff and tense as if in sympathy pain. Jon touches her right shoulderblade (just as he did that day in the cave), a careful nudge, a question — and some of that tension ebbs from her, ever so slightly.

Daenerys shoots him a grateful look, then shakes her head. “We’ll speak later,” she promises, and walks off, leaving him watching after.  


* * *

  
When Jorah Mormont arrives at Dragonstone, Jon is astonished to see that Jeor’s disgraced son receives not a formal audience, but Daenerys running, literally _running_ to meet him like a giddy maiden. Real delight washes across her face. 

And she draws herself to a halt a mere foot away from the man, stopping herself right at the last moment, as if suddenly remembering that she’s a queen. It’s the very first time Jon has ever seen that royal demeanour crack.

“Are you…” she asks, but the words falter.

Mormont automatically sinks to one knee, his head bowed, all obeisance.

“I am cured, milady,” he announces, looking for all the world like a chivalrous knight returned from a harrowing travail.

Jon is more surprised than anyone to realise that his own jaw has gone stiff, all the muscles in his face tight as he watches Daenerys Targaryen greet this other man so warmly. Her hand reaches out and touches the knight’s head, as if bestowing benefaction, a blessing, her fingers curling into his grey hair — and Jon wonders what this story is, and which chapter he’s wandered into, far too late. It seems a curious mix: not quite father and daughter, but not lovers either. Something undefinable. 

He hasn't had enough experience with women to recognise what jealousy tastes like, all bitter on his tongue, but he’s starting to suspect. 

He simply doesn't have time for an emotion like this, this annoying strangling tightness in his throat — but it’s not like telling himself that makes any difference.

So Jon looks away from this heartfelt reunion. He doesn't like watching, and it feels like he’s intruding on something, besides.  


* * *

  
“My Hand told me that your brother was betrothed twice.” It’s a touchy subject, but Daenerys doesn’t possess any qualms in trampling all over it. (She doesn’t mention her own potential husbands: Khal Drogo suffocating under a pillow, and Xaro Xhoan Daxos suffocating in a vault, also by her hand.)

“He did,” is all Jon can think of saying.

“It’s practically a requirement when it comes to strategy and alliances. Do you have a betrothed in the wings, then, King in the North? You’ll need one, if you’re to rule. A king needs heirs.” She’s very good at that acerbic voice when she wants to be, sharp like a fang.

“No, I…” He splutters now, suddenly awkward, and she sees something of the boy he used to be, a hint of it beneath the indomitable Lord Commander. He’s even _blushing_. It’s endearing. “I don’t have time for any of that,” he finally says. “All I care about is defeating the White Walkers. Everything else can come after, if we survive.”

Daenerys looks away, her mood contemplative.  


* * *

  
“They’re well-matched, aren’t they?” Tyrion muses one day, looking down from the ramparts at the two walking the walls of Dragonstone, black-haired and white, both slowly working their way into some sort of understanding.

“Aye,” Davos says, and if there’s something else he’s thinking, he doesn’t voice it.  


* * *

  
After _weeks_ of negotiation — Daenerys never thought she’d ever meet someone as stubborn as herself — and watching wagons of dragonglass roll down to the boats, the pair meet to crack open a bottle of Dornish red, to celebrate their successful alliance. Jon is finally leaving; his men have mined enough, and they need to transport the dragonglass to his army. 

The other advisors have left them alone, for this last meeting between sovereigns. Her Dothraki guards no longer bristle at this stranger standing so close to their queen, and it’s become long-accepted that she trusts him, this dour northerner.

They’re sitting in the war room, as if for a strategic meeting, but she’s covered King’s Landing with a platter of grapes and hummus transported from the east. A pair of wine glasses sit on the map, side-by-side with the tokens representing soldiers, armies. Daenerys is sitting barefoot despite the chilly stone room (he’s noticed she never seems to get cold) and has one leg curled under her, sinking comfortably back into her seat.

“You’re certain about not bending the knee?” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye, and Jon barks a laugh.

“Certain,” he says, simply. She’s tried, sometimes, to goad him into cracking a joke in return, but he rarely engages. She knows he does have a sense of humour, but it comes out so rarely.

“Well, then. To our alliance, which will have to be good enough.” Daenerys pours another glass.

She’s relaxing, finally, looking less like the fierce, statuesque queen and more like a human woman. He finds that he likes the change.

They drink late into the night, talking. He explains something of his childhood in Winterfell and she finds herself rapt; _what does snow taste like?_ Daenerys asks, and the innocence of the question is so charming, so incongruous with the ruthless queen who slaughtered an entire battalion of Lannisters from dragonback. It used to be hard to make Jon talk about anything that wasn’t _Night King this, Night King that,_ but after she confirmed that she believes him and will support him after Cersei is deposed, it became easier. He starts asking her questions about her childhood in Braavos, and about all the cities she passed through and conquered on her way here. _It sounds like an adventure story from the nursery,_ he tells her, and she scoffs back: _So does yours. Giants? Mammoths?_

 _You have a point_ , and he smiles again, and Daenerys nurses the warmth of the wine on her tongue and the warmth of that smile in her chest, her heart, that spot on her shoulder where Drogon was impaled.

In the end, they say goodbye at the gates in the morning, with their advisors arrayed around them. And for a moment, there’s a little stutter in the scene, a touch of awkwardness: how do they part ways? He won’t kneel, and neither will she. They could bow and curtsey at the exact same moment, but… 

Finally, exasperated with these formalities, Daenerys laughs and catches Jon’s hand. She squeezes it once, her palm dry and hot against his, like a beating heart.

“Go safely, King in the North,” she says.

“I shall, Your Grace.” The title comes more easily from his lips now: no longer the forced, stilted concession wrung out of him.

And he leaves.

She stands rigid on the battlements, watching their ship slink away into the distance, laden heavy with dragonglass. And she wonders if she'll ever see Jon Snow again, or if either of them will die before they have that chance.

(Of course, she has no intention of letting that happen.)


	2. eastwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I haven’t given you permission to leave,” she says crisply, as if flinty disapproval can paper over that odd, curious twinge of pain in her chest, this hollowed-out hole in anticipation of him leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon delivered on my expectations too well(!), so this diverges a little from the previous chapter in order to line up with the show again.

The war room, despite its draftiness and exposed walls and the way the screaming wind comes off the Narrow Sea, has become a place of comfort for Daenerys — like some soft Westerosi lady’s parlour or receiving room, perhaps, except it’s all cold forbidding stone and salt air and the carved topographical map sprawled in front of her. (A few hundred miles away, Cersei Lannister stands on a freshly-painted floor and looks down at Westeros under her heel.)

The queen and her advisors are sitting in the chamber, but it doesn’t have the feel of a sombre tactical meeting. Daenerys’ hair is spilling loose across her shoulders. Usually she looks indomitable, everything pinned into place, tight braids and dresses that half look like armour — but she relaxes and her jaw unclenches amongst the people she trusts, and it’s a strange realisation that that list has grown to encompass their Northern visitors.

Yet her own reaction still catches her off-guard when, suddenly, they all start talking about capturing wights.

“With the queen’s permission, I’ll go north and take one,” Ser Jorah announces, and Daenerys stirs to attention, looks at him with a question in her eyes. 

“You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you,” he says, as stubborn as always. “Allow me to serve you.”

Jon Snow chimes in immediately. “The Free Folk will help us. They know the real north better than anyone.”

“They won’t follow Ser Jorah,” Davos points out.

“They won’t have to,” Jon says, and now her attention snaps to _him_ , sharp as a whipcrack. She can sense his decision sinking in, knows what he means, what he’s proposing to do.

Daenerys is still blinking away her surprise while they talk and argue the logistics, the reasons to go, to not go. Then: “I haven’t given you permission to leave,” she says crisply, as if flinty disapproval can paper over that odd, curious twinge of pain in her chest, this hollowed-out hole in anticipation of him leaving. Of both of them going into danger.

“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t need your permission. I am a king.”

Another lurch in her heart.

She’s had no end of men standing up to her, defying her, asserting their own power — but none for the right to sacrifice themselves.  


* * *

  
He watches her, whenever she isn’t looking.

In their weeks together at Dragonstone, he’s fallen into this pattern. Daenerys walks Dragonstone with ease and confidence: having instantly taken over her ancestral birthplace, her people expanding to fill the abandoned halls, prowling the same corridors that Stannis Baratheon walked, eating breakfast at the same table where Melisandre took her spiced tea. Daenerys discusses strategy, gives orders, essentially holds court — and Jon, quiet in the background, keeps an eye on the queen.

The only person who notices this is Jorah Mormont. Jon can feel the older man’s gaze on him, but can’t read his reaction: disapproving? jealous? resigned? approving? Jon honestly can’t tell, for the disgraced knight keeps his stony face too well. (He’s like Jeor, in that respect. And Lyanna too, now that he’s thinking of it.)

She does catch him at it once or twice. Particularly at their last dinner before they’re due to depart for the north; Daenerys happens to look over at him, and Jon’s gaze immediately drops to his rack of lamb, abashed as if he were a schoolboy caught with his attention wandering.  


* * *

  
The wind off the sea is still fierce, pulling at Daenerys’ skirts and whipping at her hair while she stands before the leaving party and smiles ruefully at Ser Jorah. “We should be better at saying farewell by now.”

He can’t even muster up the words to respond. Instead he answers by way of a gentlemanly bow, his lips against her knuckles, his face whiskery and familiar.

Her heart feels like splitting in two.

And then there’s Jon Snow, still clad in his massive northern furs. (He’d been watching the goodbye from over Jorah’s shoulder but quickly averted his gaze, once again feeling as if he were intruding.)

Now it’s his turn to take his leave, and he stops in front of the queen. “If I don't return, at least you won’t have to deal with the King in the North anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to him,” she says softly. She recognises his dry-as-bones sense of humour — has grown to anticipate it, to buoy herself up with it, to hide her small smiles whenever he cracks a joke like this.

Jorah is watching and she can’t think of what else to say, filled up with the moment and the potential for both these men to perish beyond the Wall. Jon himself seems on the verge of saying something else, but then settles for a simple and curt: “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace.”

The words echo. Jon feels like he’s just walked over his own grave, spouting Mance Rayder’s words just like Daenerys spoke them, a dead man’s warning to himself. 

His hands twitch at his side. As if he was on the verge of shaking her hand, or embracing her — but he withdraws from that impulse and strides off down the beach instead.  


  


* * *

  
Daenerys becomes restless once they’re away.

She walks and walks and walks the perimeter of her little island kingdom. She spends more time with her children, feeling Viserion’s great scales rising and falling beneath her back, as she sits propped against the dragon’s great bulk.

She reads the ravens from Grey Worm at Casterly Rock (his writing still has an untidy slant, although he’s learnt his letters admirably from Missandei). But she can’t quite make herself focus to the extent that she did before. She listens to reports about feed, fresh water, and grain, and wonders how long they have before their Unsullied starve, but a part of her still waits in the north.

She plunges herself into the hot baths beneath Dragonstone.

One day, Daenerys finds Missandei standing on the battlements with a distracted look, and seizes on the opportunity for conversation. After taking up position beside her handmaiden, translator, friend, she finds herself asking: “Are you worried about Grey Worm?”

Missandei is startled, but then marshals her expression back together. (They’re very similar sometimes, these two women.)

“Of course I worry, Your Grace. He went into a dangerous war zone, against a treacherous enemy. But he is a capable fighter, and your armies are well-trained. He will return.” She says it with the firmness of conviction, but it still sounds a bit like she’s trying to convince herself.

Daenerys touches her elbow, offers consolation. “I know how you feel,” she says, before she’s quite considered what she’s admitting to.

Her advisor gives her an arch and knowing look, but doesn’t press her about it, for which Daenerys is unutterably grateful. Missandei switches gears instead. “After all this time… how are you finding your homeland? Is it quite what you’ve expected?”

“More difficult, actually. This new complication in the north, with this supposed army of the dead… I came here to conquer Westerosi lords. That’s what I prepared for. It was already going to be a hard war, but these new factors are beyond anything I expected.”

“I’ve followed you this far, Your Grace, and we’re almost there,” Missandei says with a flash of one of her brilliant, earnest smiles. “I believe you can do it — I _know_ you can do it.”

Daenerys huffs a breath. The weight on her shoulders is feeling heavier than ever. From the moment she stepped foot on the soft sand of Dragonstone, the stakes grew; she can never let herself falter, should never let her guard drop. “Sometimes it is very wearying,” she admits, quietly, almost more to herself, “to have so many people _believing_ in me. I know I was destined for this throne and I’ve known it for years, of course, but…”

She can’t voice the next part, can’t bring herself to admit it, for how it may make her sound weak — 

But it would be nice, to not be alone. To have an equal.


	3. beyond the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She keeps her eyes trained on the tree-line, waiting, as she once waited and hoped for Khal Drogo to rise from the dead. If they turn around now, that would truly admit that the King in the North, too, is dead and gone.
> 
>  _If I look back, I am lost,_ she tells herself.

_Dark wings, dark words._

Tyrion can’t help but think it as he watches the raven wing its way south and towards the open mouth of the war room. None of their news has been very good lately. He wonders what this one will say.  


* * *

  
The queen is out of her seat practically as soon as she finishes reading the message from the raven: a hurried, panicked missive scribbled in a maester’s hand. She readjusts the collar of her heavy white gown, ready for the freezing climate at the Wall.

“You can’t!” Tyrion has to lengthen his stride, almost half-running to keep up with her as she marches down the cliffs, towards the plateau where the three dragons loll and laze in the cool sunlight. It’s going to get much colder soon.

“The most important person in the world can't fly to the most dangerous place in the world,” her Hand protests.

“Who else can?” They argue, but she knows it’s inevitable, and knows that she’s already made up her mind. He speaks sense, but her panic and helplessness is barely kept at bay.

And she’s tired of feeling panicked and helpless.

This is their only chance to convince Cersei. This is the life of her loyal knight, his survival so hard-won and only so recently returned to her.

And it’s the life of Jon Snow.

She’s decided. “You told me to do nothing before and I’ve listened to you. I’m not doing nothing again.”  


* * *

  
Daenerys stands on the Wall like an imperious unmoving figurehead, staring off into the distance. Jorah waits patiently by her side, a loyal hound, a warm and reassuring presence, but not pushing the matter. He must be freezing by now, despite his heavy cloak.

She doesn’t feel the cold. She doesn’t feel much of anything. If she starts thinking about it too closely, she remembers the streams and ribbons of Viserion’s blood curling through the sky, the thunderous sound as he crashed into the snow. His scream. She’ll hear that scream forever.

The sound of Jon’s voice, raw and ragged, shouting _Go._ One lone figure dragged down under a wave of the living dead.

She keeps her eyes trained on the tree-line, waiting, as she once waited and hoped for Khal Drogo to rise from the dead. If they turn around now, that would truly admit that the King in the North, too, is dead and gone.

 _If I look back, I am lost,_ she tells herself.

They stand there until it’s long past time. 

“It’s time to go, Your Grace,” Jorah says gently.

“A bit longer.”

They stand, and wait. The keening sound of Rhaegal’s grief in the distance mirrors her own, like the rending noise she can’t let loose. Daenerys remains — until a silent agreement is reached, and reluctantly, she turns away and starts to follow Jorah off the Wall.

And then they hear the horns.  


* * *

  
The men drag Jon Snow in half-frozen; the only reason he hadn’t toppled off that horse is because his body had contorted around it, limbs locked and clothing literally freezing into place.

The maester and assistants swarm over his body. They yank the furs off him, the material cracking as they do so, as if they’re hacking him out of ice. He had been shuddering in convulsive bone-breaking shivers when they first brought him in, but now he isn’t even shivering anymore, which is a bad sign — his body, giving up.

They bring thin knives into the bedchamber and slice open his clothes to avoid jostling him too much, and they expose his bare, too-pale skin to the air.

“Shouldn’t they put him into a tub of hot water?” Daenerys demands from the doorway, standing out of the way of the healers but close enough to watch. (She can’t look away.)

“No,” the man called Edd explains dolefully, while Davos and the maester throw the ruined leathers to the floor. “Too much shock. Would warm him up too fast, make his heart give out. It has to be slow. All we can do is wait.”

They pack down Jon’s fresh furs with sheeps’ bladders filled with hot water, layering them around his neck, chest, between his legs. They stack the fire with more wood until it’s roaring.

And Daenerys watches the process, watches them trying to revive this half-dead man.

She’d once stepped unscathed and alive from the flames, spared by the fire; he’s crawled alive out of a frozen lake. The parallels aren’t lost on her.  


* * *

  
Without a word, the queen transfers her vigil from the Wall to Jon Snow’s bedside instead. She loses track of time and doesn’t quite know how long she’s been there, seated primly and patiently waiting for him to wake up.

When he finally does, and after the initial rush of confusion, he recognises her and his face immediately falls.

“I’m sorry,” Jon bursts out, the very first words out of his mouth: crestfallen, gutted, completely ignoring the fact that he’d almost died. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish we’d never gone.”

Daenerys can feel her eyes filling and she bites back her mingled emotions; the raw grief, the uncomfortable relief at seeing him awake and speaking. She shakes it off, takes a shuddery breath, and declares: “I don’t. If we hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have seen. You have to see it to know. Now I know.”

A pause. His hand has found hers, giving a reassuring squeeze, and she instinctively clutches at it. She looks down at his thumb against hers, and can feel his weak pulse beneath her fingertips.

“The dragons are my children,” she says, after another pause. “They’re the only children I’ll ever have.” A beat. Daenerys is explaining more than just her emotional attachment. (There are other implications, here, for a queen who cannot have children.) “Do you understand?”

The smallest of nods, his dawning realisation.

“We are going to destroy the Night King and his army,” she says, carefully, meticulously, with the firmness one might use to declare a universal truth: the sky is blue, winter is coming, and Targaryen and Snow are now a united front. “And we’ll do it together. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Dany.”

He’s trying out something new and the sound of it startles her. Daenerys half-laughs, considers the nickname. “Dany… Who was the last person who called me that? I’m not sure, was it my brother? Not the company you want to keep.”

“Alright. Not Dany.” He smiles, and once again, the sight of it transforms his whole face. The man’s voice drops, turns rougher as he tries another tack: “How about ‘my queen’?”

She’s stunned.

“I’d bend the knee, but…” A self-deprecating gesture, a nod down to his injured body. Again with the humour.

Daenerys casts about for an explanation. “What about those who swore allegiance to you?” 

“They’ll all come to see you for what you are,” Jon says.

Another deep breath. And for once, she isn’t impetuous pride and arrogance, but humility: “I hope I deserve it.”

“You do.” He says it just as firmly as she had. _The sky is blue, winter is coming, and we’ll do this together._

All of a sudden, the room feels too close and too warm, his hand too tight against hers — they’re standing on a precipice and she doesn’t know what lies on the other side — and so Daenerys pulls her hand back, rapidly musters her composure and shoots back to her feet. She clears her throat. “You should get some rest.”

Jon nods, agreeing, and she leaves the room quickly, as if she’d been scalded by this interaction. The King in the North closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

(But right when she’s about to leave, he cracks open an eye and sneaks another look, watching her go.)  


  


* * *

  
Jon is bedridden for days, even as he stabilises and the ship starts moving south. He can’t come to the strategic sessions in the oversized captain’s quarters with the rest of the advisors, and so the queen comes to him.

“You’re still so cold,” she says, touching his hand. They’ve been feeding him hot drinks but it’s like his body simply can’t recover yet; she wonders, briefly, if there was something in the wights or White Walkers that might be contagious. Or if it’s a symptom of his flirtation with death, evidenced by those deep and rough-hewn scars scrawling their way across his chest.

“And you’re always warm.” Jon’s fingers flex against hers again, and she’s reluctant to let go.

“One of the benefits of being the dragon queen, I’m afraid.”

“Must be nice.”

“It is.” She appraises the half-dressed man again. Then, making up her mind, Daenerys pulls back the furs and slips beneath them, taking up residence on the bed by his side. He jolts in surprise, tries to squirm away — ever the gentleman — but Daenerys shakes her head. “Do not take this for more than it is. But you’re _freezing,_ and we can’t have our northern commander frostbitten. Is it true that it causes people to lose hands and feet?”

“Aye, it is.” He’s still rigid; now from their closeness, and not the cold.

Daenerys settles in beside him, seated upright; they’re close, but not intimately so. More like two friends sharing a warm blanket. It reminds her for a moment of sharing a bed with Missandei, Irri, and Doreah: the three women gossiping late into the night, sharing laughter, stories. (She misses them, often. Those days before she became a queen and when they felt more like sisters.) She doesn’t press closer, doesn’t trespass further; this is enough, simply radiating heat where her clothed leg touches his, her sleeved arm barely touching against his side.

But she holds his hand: has caught it in both of hers, curling her fingers around his, waiting until she can feel him warm up. His quarters on the ship don’t have a roaring fireplace, and the Bay of Seals is absolutely frigid.

Jon’s starting to relax, a bit. “Many of the men of the Night’s Watch contract frostbite. The rangers especially.” The next words out of his throat come hesitantly: “My uncle suffered from it badly. He looked almost half-dead.”

“Your uncle?”

He hasn’t spoken to anyone of this yet; he didn’t know how to begin, his throat dry. He reaches with his free hand to the hot tea by the bedside, sips some, and waits for some of the heat to reach his chest. It doesn’t seem to work. The only source of warmth in this room is Daenerys.

“Benjen Stark. I saw him, beyond the Wall. When I was on the lake, he… came to my rescue. I thought he was long-gone, but somehow he found me. Repelled the wights. He died doing so.”

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says softly. She’d wondered how he’d survived. “What astounding timing — I suppose it’s like a nursery tale again. You’re very lucky to have family who would do that for you.”

“Aren’t you lucky, as well? You’ve accomplished a lot.”

“Unfortunately, no.” A wry smile. “I make my own luck. But sometimes it doesn’t turn out very well.”

He remembers her dragon (it’s never far from his mind), and squeezes her hand. It’s astonishing how much heat she gives off; it’s like cupping a living flame between his hands, and he marvels at it.

They continue talking in low voices and the dragon queen lies by the wolf’s side until his hands finally feel warm again, until his heart beats strong. It’s inappropriate — she knows it is, she’s nudging up against that danger again — but she’s already sacrificed one of her children for this man; and so what is a little propriety?

It’s a long trip south to King’s Landing. She’ll have to leave soon, withdrawing back to the safety of her own quarters, but finds herself unwilling.

_Just a bit longer._

But at last Daenerys relinquishes his hand and slides out from under the furs, leaving behind the companionable conversation. They spoke like friends. Like equals. The man she saved, at such cost.

She gives him another smile, and walks away from that precipice again, his door closing behind her.

_If I look back, I am lost._


End file.
